"Can I give you a hand, Mr. Adama?" E. B. Farnum squeaked from behind his counter as he started to walk around the side, hand already outstretched to take one of the boxes.

"Go back, E.B. I've got this."

Laura stood in the doorway of their rooms and watched Bill juggle the two large flat boxes up the stairs. She was dying to ask what he was carrying but hated to give Farnum any grist for his gossip mill. She stood to one side as he wrestled them into the room.

"What do we have here?"

He kicked the door shut behind him and brought the boxes into the bedroom.

"I got tasked with getting us dressed up for an evening out tomorrow night."

She started untying the package string around the larger box. "Evening out? What's that like around here? Is there something going on at the theater?" She took the cardboard lid off the box and opened the tissue paper underneath. "Oh, my…."

"No. Swearengen invited us to dinner." He started working on the knot around the second box, finally cutting it with the knife he'd started carrying on his belt.

Her nose wrinkled. "You bought new clothes for us to sit at a greasy table at the Gem? Seems like a waste." She looked down at the deep wine-red silk under the paper and ran a delicate finger over the sharp pleats and lace-trimmed ruffles.

"We're not going there. He's invited us to have dinner with him and Mrs. Ellsworth at her house."

Bill shook the gray frock coat free from the box and held it out in front of him. The color reminded her of his dress grays and a pang of homesickness ran through her.

"That looks pretty elegant for Deadwood," she noted.

"There's a new tailor in town. He says he's trying to bring some big-city style to the territories. Apparently he's operating under Swearengen's watchful eye and paying a share of his earnings for protection." He unfolded the white broadcloth shirt and hung it in the oak armoire by the window. "Same situation for the dressmaker."

"That's a shame."

He shrugged. "They seemed happier than I expected with the arrangement."

She began lifting the heavy dress out of its wrappings: yards of deep claret-colored silk spilled over the side of the bed as she straightened out the garment. She began smiling in spite of herself. The deep square neckline was trimmed with a ruffle of silvery gray lace that was duplicated at the wrists. She measured the waistline with her eye, the pleats in front narrowing to a point that would hit just below her stomach. Maybe the corset isn't such a bad idea after all. The draped overskirt ended in a sort of a swoopy puff at the back, revealing a gray and black embroidered underskirt in front, three rows of ruffles at the bottom.

Bill frowned as she studied the dress. "Is that okay? She offered to add some ribbons along the red parts…."

"Oh, no…it's beautiful like it is. It weighs a ton, and I bet I'll be dying to get out of it by the time dinner's over, but I admit it kind of reminds me of prom night." She grinned then, suddenly a little excited by a…well, a date, fancy dress and all.

He grinned back. "You won't be the only one dying to get you out of that dress later on."

"That reminds me of prom night, too," she teased.

Bill seemed to have lost some of the tightness around his mouth, she observed as they began putting away their finery. If he didn't open up soon about what was creating the subtle changes she had noticed, she'd have to start pushing the issue. She stared at his broad back as he tried the coat on, noting that he had become trimmer around the waist since they'd been here. She hoped it was the increased activity, but a small voice in the back of her head nagged that maybe it was worry…worry that he was hiding from her.

"So? What do you think?" He turned to face her in the frock coat, unbuttoned over his work shirt.

"It looks good on you. Maybe you can bring it with you when we go back to Galactica." She was sure she saw an odd jumpiness in his eyes when she finished her sentence. He turned away and took off the coat.

"Maybe I can," he said, with a certain finality in his voice.

.

.

It had been a long afternoon for Bill. He'd walked the length of the main street and back before he felt like talking to a couple of intimidated shop-keepers. He hadn't expected their good spirits as they nodded at his reluctant admission that Al Swearengen has sent him.

"Mr. Swearengen, he's a strong man. He has power," the plump tailor said in heavily accented English.

"Yes!" the slender woman agreed from the doorway that joined the two shops. "He keeps…how do you say…the trouble-makers, the drunks from making problems for us." She had lowered her voice then. "We are not here so long, you see? Not so many from our country here…so many new people every, every day come for gold. Some buy things for the girls, the women, they make fight, then they want their money back from me." She shrugged. "I say Mr. Swearengen's name, they leave me alone."

She turned to the mannequin in the window, pulling the curtain closed before beginning to take off the bright wine-red dress, and talked as she worked. "There are worse men in the world. This man is not a saint, but he is smart. And in his own way, he is honest, if you know how to hear him." She began packing up the dress.

One more day or two, he thought, as the tailor began measuring around his chest, jotting down figures and looking through his ready-made inventory. He'd allow himself some time with Laura, maybe help her wash her hair in the hotel's portable tin tub, help her dress in that outfit that would set off her porcelain skin and green eyes…after that, he'd tell her. After the dinner. After a long, slow frak and a good night's sleep.

Then he could tell her the truth, and they could come to a rational decision. And then maybe the sour metallic taste in his mouth would go away.

.

.

"Well, ain't you both a picture? Her more than you, Adama, but a picture nevertheless."

Al smiled at the couple standing at the bottom of the Grand Central staircase. Adama looked every inch a gentleman, a strong hint of past military service in his posture. Not overly dandified, but respectable, even trustworthy. And his woman…she was bright as a new penny, looking a step or two up the social ladder from a modest country teacher. His eyes were drawn to her slender ivory neck, and he felt for Adama as he envisioned a coil of hempen rope being adjusted around her throat, heavy knot to the back. He could see why Adama would do anything to spare her from that, but something about Laura Adama kept giving him the feeling that deceit was a poor way to deal with her.

"Thanks. Here's the invoices for the clothes. I'll expect this to come out of my pay…and for the money to get to the shopkeepers."

Bill handed him the folded notepaper and Al slipped in into his vest pocket. "That's what I like about you, Adama. You're an honest man. Plenty of scruples and the like." He cocked an eyebrow at Bill as Laura looked at him thoughtfully.

"You're looking very nice this evening, Mr. Swearengen."

"Thanks, Mrs. Adama." He glanced down at his navy suit, freshly brushed and pressed. "Not my preferred color, but Mrs. Ellsworth tells me my usual choice of black dress clothes unsettle her child for some reason. Thought this might look a bit less…threatening." One day, he thought, he'd have to sit that child down and explain he'd only plotted against her life for a day or so, just until he found an alternative witness to silence. Bright child like that, surely she could see his reasoning.

They maneuvered around the evening foot traffic down the wooden sidewalk and across the dusty streets to the Ellsworth home. The racket of Deadwood ending another day made it impossible to make small talk on the way, and Mrs. Adama seemed preoccupied with keeping her flounced skirts above the worst of the muck. It was obvious she was more used to simpler garments, he thought.

The small front yard of Alma's house was tidy and well-kept, pockets of flowerbeds placed at the corners of the front fence and around a spreading oak in the center of the yard. The front bay window was suffused with a warm light as they came up the front steps. The door opened as they stepped onto the porch, and Alma Ellsworth, Deadwood's wealthiest widow, welcomed them in with polite words and a ladylike smile. She was especially lovely tonight, he thought, dressed in deep blue satin with a peacock green bodice that set off her eyes and rich chestnut hair. One day, he knew, she'd decide to leave his protection and seek a more suitable man…but he planned to enjoy the time they had left together.

.

.

"My daughter speaks so highly of you, Mrs. Adama. I'm delighted that we are finally able to get to know one another," Mrs. Ellsworth said as she guided them into the parlor.

"Sofia's a delight to teach, Mrs. Ellsworth. Such a quick mind." Laura smiled at the solemn-faced little girl, her wheat-blond hair pulled back in a blue and green tartan bow that matched her dress.

"Mrs. Adama?" Sofia's voice was almost too quiet to hear, and Laura bent to catch her words. "Does your husband know how to play checkers?"

Mrs. Ellsworth cleared her throat. "Sofia, dear, Mr. Adama is talking with Mr. Swearengen right now." She looked at Laura. "I'm sorry…my late husband frequently played checkers with her in the evenings and she misses that very much."

"I've never played, young lady, but Mrs. Adama tells me I'm a pretty good student," Bill said in a soft rumble from the sofa. Laura turned with a smile as she saw Sofia's face light up. Bill seemed to have finally relaxed, shoulders easy under the smooth gray fabric of his new coat. As Sofia darted to her room to get her checkerboard and pieces, Laura went over to him and murmured "That was a nice thing to do."

Alma flashed him a grateful smile."Thank you, Mr. Adama. That was very kind of you to offer. Mr. Swearengen, perhaps you can learn a few things about entertaining children from Mr. Adama while I introduce his wife to Mrs. Marchbank and her ladies." Alma turned to Laura. "Lou Marchbanks is building her own restaurant in town, but until that's completed, she has been kind enough to hire out as a cook for special occasions."

Laura followed Alma into the kitchen as they talked, wondering why Mr. Swearengen was frowning so much as Sofia began unpacking her game, explaining the basics to Bill. She mentally shrugged. Maybe this was a common game and he found it odd that Bill didn't know it. Or maybe it was the child's ease around Bill, she amended, as she watched Sofia hop up on the sofa next to Bill, keeping him between herself and Swearengen. His remark about trying to look less threatening ran through her mind as she was introduced to Mrs. Marchbanks and her staff.

.

.

Laura's corset stays were starting to pinch by the time she put her fork down. The bountiful dinner had been delicious: fried chicken, golden and crisp with a light shattery crust, mashed potatoes swirled with pools of melted butter, roasted carrots and onions sprinkled with herbs, fresh green beans tasting of late summer sunshine…and fluffy biscuits as big as her fist. She groaned at the deep dish of peach cobbler that was brought out with coffee at the end of the meal. A guilty pang ran through her as she thought of thousands of people who were spooning down their allotted amount of algae right now. She wished she could share just one meal like this with the Fleet.

Across the table, Bill and Swearengen had started talking to Alma about the plans for financing the winter stables and pasture.

"Mr. Swearengen, with you and Mr. Bullock putting up your shares of the capital, I'm inclined to agree to take this to the bank's board of directors with the recommendation that we grant the loan for the balance. We need to do what we can to keep more townspeople in Deadwood through the winter."

"Has that been a problem?" Bill asked.

"In past winters, quite a few people left to winter in milder climates. When it was miners and their tents, it wasn't really a problem, but now we have people borrowing money to build houses, and we can't afford for them to get anxious about the winter and leave town owing us money." She frowned at Al's snort. "And we cannot endorse extralegal means to discourage that, either," she continued. "As a matter of fact, as I imagine the Grand Central is becoming as tedious for you both as it became for me, I should tell you that there's a darling little house at the west end of town that has come back into the bank's possession. If you have intentions of settling in Deadwood, I could make you a very attractive price on it."

Laura froze as she heard Bill ask "How big is it?"

"Mr. Adama," Laura said, in formal frosty tones, "does it really matter? For the limited time we will be staying here, I think the hotel is more than adequate."

Al watched the two fence as politely as they could, Adama staying steady on the topic of staying in town as his wife grew increasingly firm that their stay was temporary. He could see why the man had been frustrated; she did indeed seem hell-bent on going back where they came from. And Adama, stubborn cocksucker that he was, apparently still hadn't come clean with her about the risks of going back. This was getting nowhere fast, he thought. Maybe throwing a surprise move into the mix would shake things loose in one or both of them.

"Mrs. Ellsworth, as our talk has now turned to town fuck—excuse me…town business," he corrected himself at her stern look, "might the bank consider a loan to Doc Cochran to expand his practice?"

Her elegant high forehead wrinkled. "I didn't know he was thinking about expanding. I rather thought with his health problems, he'd be more likely to cut back."

He put his elbows on the table and folded his hands." See, that's just it. I was thinkin' it'd be good for him and the town if he brought in another doc. I was gonna bring this up later, but since we're all here…Adama, do you think your friend Doc Cottle would be interested in relocatin' to Deadwood?"

He spooned up the last of his peach cobbler as the strange couple looked at him in shock, then turned to look at each other, guilt and fury crackling in the air. Time to see what kind of hell this would break loose.

.

.

"What on earth was that about?" Alma leaned into his shoulder as they stood at the back of the now-deserted kitchen. The faint sound of two voices drifted in from the front porch, the words indistinguishable.

He wrapped his arm around her waist, enjoying the scent of her hair. It carried a hint of the scent he had bought for himself when they first started keeping company. A rich mix of oranges, sandalwood and musk, it had transferred from his chest to her locks as she had rested against him earlier that day in his rooms, before she rose to dress and ready herself to pick up Sofia from school.

"That pair of mules out there needed to have a conversation, so I gave them some encouragement to that end."

"Are you sure that was wise? She seemed awfully angry. Couldn't you hear the ice in her voice?" She turned her head to nuzzle against his neck, starting to roughen with his evening beard.

"Woman's hell-bent on returning to her home, but he says there's death waitin' for her there. My opinion, she's got a warrant out on her, but he's playin' the details close to his vest."

"Would you like me to talk to her? I know a few things about realizing you can't go back home."

He tilted her chin up until their eyes met. "Really? I figured you'd decide to head East again one day, see whether you could find a husband suited to your station and the like." His tone was light but anxiety flickered in his dark green eyes.

"Albert, I'm quite convinced that my first husband's family would still be waiting, with accusations at the ready, if I tried to return to New York. I suspect they'd manage to declare themselves rightful heirs, through Brom, to everything I have, once they saw me hanged."

He looked away. "If a sworn testament of confession to Brom's murder by the…perpetrator would keep you safe, would that be a path you'd consider takin'?"

Slim fingers turned his head back towards her. "No, for innumerable reasons. For one, they would never recognize Sofia as my heir, as I made her my ward before we were under U.S. law, remember? And secondly…." She laid her cheek against his broad chest. "I don't know for certain who the perpetrator was, and at this point, I would remain ignorant of that certainty if it means we can continue as we are."

Running his damaged hand down her back, he whispered, "She let me play a game of checkers with her, after a few rounds with Adama. I think she felt safe, him bein' there."

He could feel her smile against his chest. "What was that like?"

"Not bad. That child's all right." He smiled into her hair and wondered how the Adamas were doing, talking things out on the darkened front porch.

.

.

"I can't believe you didn't tell me!"

"Look, Laura, there's more to it than that."

She was stone-faced, in full Madam President mode. "More than you continuing to let me think we're stranded here, when you've been in communication with Galactica for days? More than you lying to me every time I asked you if you'd heard anything?"

Bill sighed and leaned back against the porch railing. "Yeah. A lot more."

She was trying to hold in her fury, but even so, Bill was looking increasingly miserable. Something struck her as off…she would have expected him to argue reasons, offer justifications by now for his decision to not tell her he'd been in communication with the others. Instead, he looked like someone had just shot his dog.

"So…say something to make me understand what was so important, that it was worth violating the trust I have in you."

His eyes had started to glisten. "I thought I lost you once, before I even realized I loved you, remember?"

She hesitated, then walked next to him and leaned on the railing beside him. "I remember."

"And then," he continued, his voice thickening, "I thought I'd lost you on New Caprica."

She looked out over the torch-lit town, a few lights flickering high in the hills below the expanse of black sky and twinkling stars. "But you didn't," she said softly. "You saved me both times."

"Both times, it was down to the wire. I felt, right here," he touched his chest, pressing hard against his scar, "that you were gone. I can't go through that again."

She covered his finger with her hand and stiffened her tone. "You need to start filling in some frakking gaps, now, Admiral. I mean it."

He looked down at the shiny toes of his new boots. "Those tests Doc Cottle did before we took out the Raptor…"

She jerked against him, her hand rising instinctively to her left breast. "What about them?"

"When I established a comm link last week, he insisted on talking to me immediately."

"Bill? What did he say?" She was torn between wanting to shake the information out of him, and wanting to cover his mouth so she wouldn't hear the words. Wrapping her arms around herself, she prompted again.

"Bill?"

"He said…Cottle said…" he sighed and gripped the railing hard. "He said the cancer was back. According to every test he ran, you should be dead by now."

She swallowed hard and tried to process what she'd just heard. Pulling one of his hands free from the railing, she slipped her hand into his. "And does he have a…theory on the discrepancy?"

"Yeah. And you're not going to like it."

"Try me."

He looked up at the night sky for a second. She wondered if he knew Galactica's position, or if he was just appealing to the stars. The moonlight accentuated the crags and wrinkles in his face and she wanted to reach up and touch his cheek so much it hurt, but she knew what it was costing him to say this out loud and was terrified of derailing this.

"He thinks it has to do with some factor unique to this planet. They've done some tests, and he's still collating data, and he's desperate to run some tests on you, but…." His voice trailed away.

"But?"

"Laura, he thinks—we think…if you leave this environment, the cancer will come back."

Bill reached out and pulled her into his arms, the stiff lace ruffle around her collar whispering against his chest. She could feel the dampness of his cheek against hers.

"Laura, if you go back, I'm afraid you'll die."

She could feel him trembling with the effort to not break down. She almost wanted to be there with him, feeling everything he was feeling, showing him that he wasn't alone in his fears. Her heartbeat started slowing down from its gallop and she began pulling away as gently as she could.

"We better say goodnight and get back to the hotel, and put some coffee on." She took a small step back from him, just enough to put some cool night air between them. Her hands were folded tightly in front of her skirt.

"Bill, we've got a lot of talking to do."